This is the second essay in Perverse, a series about the good and holy things we’ve bent into something that no longer reflects God. If you’re finding it later, you can read them in any order.
I’ve often said I didn’t set out to be an author, and I definitely didn’t set out to be a Christian influencer. When God nudged me to write again, it had been years since I’d set pen to paper or thought to keyboard. I wasn’t chasing anything. I was just trying to say yes.
But once I started, I got swept up fast.
The Christian publishing world comes with a long list of requirements, and I tried to check every box (not unlike how I’ve lived much of my life). Just tell me what you need from me and I’ll do it. And they did:
Build a platform.
Grow an email list.
Post consistently on social media.
Write blog posts and guest articles.
Attend writers’ conferences and network.
Polish a book proposal, then polish it again.
Learn the market.
Learn the algorithm.
Learn to talk about yourself without sounding like you’re talking about yourself.
I did all of it. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find my breakthrough.
Then comparison tapped me on the shoulder and tickled my thoughts. Friends I’d made in the writing world were landing book deals, announcing launch dates, and holding finished copies in their hands. I was genuinely happy for them. I was also quietly wondering what I was doing wrong.
So I kept praying, and if I’m honest, I kept reminding God of the deal. You told me to write. I’m just being obedient.
And then He reminded me that I was right. He had asked me to write.
Not publish. Not build a platform. Not land a book deal.
Then He asked me a question that pierced my heart: If I called you to write to heal the broken places inside you, to mend relationships, and to break generational chains for you and your family, would that be enough? Or will you only see this as a success once you’ve achieved what you set out for?
I was stunned.
But God wasn’t done.
When obedience becomes leverage
Last week, I wrote about perseverance, and how discernment is the muscle that helps us know whether to keep going or let go. This is the letting go.
As I look back, I can see how what started as an obedient “yes” drifted into the very thing I wrote about last week: perverse perseverance.
I wasn’t clinging to a dream. I was “being obedient.” I was “stewarding my calling.” Those phrases weren’t lies. God really had led me to write. But somewhere along the way, I had quietly added terms to His instructions and then held Him to them.
I wonder how often we do this. We take the language of surrender and obedience and use it to protect the very thing we’re unwilling to hand over. A ministry we started. A church we helped plant. A role, a relationship, a vision for our family. God led us to it, so it must be ours to keep. We sing “I Surrender All” on Sunday and mean it, as long as “all” doesn’t include the thing He gave us.
That’s when surrender turns perverse. It stops trusting and becomes a transaction. I obeyed, so You owe me. I gave this up once, so now You’ll give it back bigger. We treat surrender like a deposit and we expect a high return on our investment, instead of an open-handed yes to a God who doesn’t owe us an outcome.
The thing God once led you to can become the thing you now grip so tightly you won’t let go.
The promise on the altar
God led me back to a story I’d read so many times I thought I knew it by heart. But this time He showed me something I’d never noticed before. (I love when He does that!)
In Genesis 22, God tells Abraham, “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac,” and offer him as a sacrifice on a mountain (Genesis 22:2). Not an idol. Not a sin. Isaac was the promise. He was the son God had spoken over for decades, the answer to years of waiting, the proof that God keeps His word. And God asked Abraham to put him on the altar.
I read it. I sobbed. And I wrestled.
Because I knew what God was asking of me. He wanted me to lay my dream of being a published author on His altar. To surrender it to His will, not mine. To trust Him with a dream I didn’t even know I had until it consumed me. And to trust that if He consumed it, so be it, and if He fulfilled it, that was up to Him too.
We usually tell this story from the end, because we know how it turns out. The angel stops Abraham’s hand. A ram is caught in the thicket. Isaac walks down the mountain. But Abraham climbed that mountain without knowing any of that. When Isaac asked where the lamb was, all Abraham could say was, “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son“ (Genesis 22:8).
Abraham didn’t surrender Isaac to get him back. He didn’t know how the story would end when he packed their things and started for the mountain. He surrendered Isaac because he trusted the God who gave him. His trust wasn’t in the outcome. It was in the character of God.
But what did Jesus say?
Centuries later, God did provide the Lamb. And the night before the cross, in Gethsemane, Jesus showed us what surrender actually sounds like.
He didn’t pretend it was easy. In fact, Jesus was so upset it says His sweat was like drops of blood (Luke 22:44). He asked His Father plainly for another way: “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done“ (Luke 22:42).
I find so much freedom in that prayer. Jesus brought His real desire to the Father. And then He yielded.
Surrender isn’t pretending we don’t want something. It’s wanting it honestly and trusting God with it anyway.
Praying with open hands
During that season, I realized the impact prayer had on my ability to surrender—not just spiritually, but physically too. I’d been taught to pray in a posture that looks nothing like surrender. Head bowed. Hands folded tightly together.
It’s hard to release something to God when you’re physically holding on so tight.
I honestly never considered how posture connected to surrender until a mentor led our group through an exercise where she asked us to pray with our hands open, palms up, as a physical act of surrender. It was so uncomfortable at first. I felt awkward and exposed. But I kept doing it, and over time it stopped being only a physical act and became a spiritual one. My hands started teaching my heart what it looks like to stop gripping.
So where is my writing today? Still waiting, with open hands. I recently sent a new book proposal to my agent. In the meantime, I’m trying to keep my eyes on Jesus, stay attuned to His leading, and not let the pressure and comparison of publishing distract me. He holds the keys to every door. And I’m learning to lean into the readers God has already entrusted to me.
YOU.
Dreams are good. But they can distract me from what God has already placed in my hands today.
Surrender still isn’t easy. It probably never will be.
But isn’t that the point? Do we trust God enough to fully surrender to His will, His plan, His kingdom, even when we can’t see the ram in the thicket?
Next week, I want to look at another good thing we can hold too tightly: loyalty. When does our devotion to a person, a church, or a tradition quietly start to outrank our devotion to Jesus?
Sit With This
What has God once led you to that you might now be holding too tightly?
If God asked you, “Would it be enough?” what would your honest answer be?
What might shift in you if you spent this week praying with open hands?
Keep Reading
This is the second essay in Perverse, a series asking how we’ve taken good and holy things and turned them into something that no longer reflects God. Next week: Perverse Loyalty. Until then, here are a few more to sit with:
Perverse Perseverance: The first essay in the series, on when our refusal to quit becomes an idol.
Walls Feel Safe...but, Walls Lie: What Hadestown taught me about protection, doubt, and trusting Jesus enough not to look back.
Who Should I Believe?: Three questions to help you discern which voices are worth listening to.
If this article encouraged you, provided language for what you’re feeling,
or challenged you, I’d love to hear your story in a comment below.